


Ambiguity

by CommonNonsense



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Holidays, Light Angst, M/M, mostly the unrepentant fluff though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 00:50:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16984992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: McCree has a hard enough time during the holidays without Hanzo playing games.





	Ambiguity

Hanzo kisses McCree on December twenty-second, a little after seven in the evening, with no warning whatsoever.

There’s too many folks with too many plans and other non-Christmas holidays to hold a proper celebration on the day, but they’ve made do with a little party a few days beforehand. The last thing McCree had wanted to do was attend, but he’d dragged himself down anyway, knowing that he would have to field half a dozen concerned questions at the minimum if he didn’t. If he can get through tonight, it should be easier. The party’s in full swing now, everyone broken off into clumps, chattering merrily and laughing and talking about their plans for their upcoming time off. McCree managed to separate himself well enough to nurse a drink in silence, trying and failing to not look like he’s brooding.

Torbjörn and Brigitte are leaving in the morning for Sweden, and Reinhardt’s packing off with them as an honorary member of the Lindholm clan. Lena will be back off to London and so will Winston, apparently, for a tradition McCree doesn’t fully know. Lúcio and Hana are flying back home for a couple of days to check in on family and other things, the Amaris have each other, and who even knew what the Shimadas might have planned but surely they’ll figure something out. McCree just has to get through tonight, and then he can mope around all he wants with nobody to judge him.

At least, that had been the plan.

The kiss is surprisingly gentle, unlike the fist clenched in the front of his shirt to yank him down. It’s one firm press, lingering, followed by another, a little softer, his warm lips slotted perfectly between McCree’s. He tastes faintly of rum and eggnog, spiced and sweet. It’s three blissful seconds full of intent, and want, and all the things that Hanzo hasn’t so much as hinted at before.

Hanzo breaks away. McCree can hear nothing else now besides his own shallow breathing and the soft noise of their lips parting. Hanzo’s grip in McCree’s shirt slackens, but he doesn’t release him quite yet. By comparison, McCree’s hands are still held halfway in the air, one clutching a glass of bourbon like his life depends on it, the other floating uselessly behind Hanzo’s back.

"What," McCree starts, then stops. He clears his throat, and his voice comes out just a little more even. "What was that?"

Hanzo smirks up at him, smug, as though he’s proud of catching McCree off-guard. "It is tradition, is it not?" he asks, over-enunciating a little in the manner of the conscientious drunk. He looks up, and McCree follows his gaze to the ceiling, and yep, there it is: one delicate sprig of mistletoe, tied with a thin red ribbon and pinned above the doorway with a tack. He’s not quite sure how he missed that one. "I would have thought that to be one of your favorite traditions."

McCree stares down at him, mouth open but unable to form words. "Surprised, gunslinger?" Hanzo goads playfully. "I never thought I would see you rendered speechless."

McCree’s stomach lurches, snapping him back to reality.

"‘Scuse me," he says, pushing past Hanzo. He drops his bourbon on the first flat surface he passes, goes back to his dorm, and packs a bag.

 

\--

 

He manages to pack his things, check out a car, set the autopilot, and make it to the hypertrain station with a surprisingly clear head, but it’s not until he’s standing in front of a board of upcoming departures that it occurs to him that he’s probably being ridiculous.

Still, he never took to being reasonable, so he buys a ticket for the upcoming train to Madrid anyway. That should get him far away enough for a few days’ respite. The one good thing about the holidays: the massive increase in public transit allowing him to have a breakdown and get on a train at eight-thirty at night.

Sitting in a cracked plastic chair with his duffel bag between his feet, McCree fires off a message to Winston-- _Back in a few days, don’t wait up--_ and then reclines his head against the cool brick behind him. His head still swims slightly with the alcohol he drank not even an hour ago; he suspects it’s part of the reason he hasn’t already talked himself out of fleeing the base. Good, he thinks irritably; it’s pushed him over the edge, away from his pseudo-noble plans to keep anyone from worrying.

McCree hates Christmas. He well and truly does.

It’s not the festivity or the merriness or the traditions, not some Scrooge-like distaste for the mere concept of it. But after weathering a few years alone, making a good handful of bad decisions, and watching enough of the people he considers family--literal or otherwise--disappear, it’s hard to look at the whole season with anything but bitterness.

He tried this year, he really did. Last year’s Christmas was a hazy memory drowned in a bottle of Jack, but he had tried this year. He had stuck around the entire month, even though his instinct was to slink away before he could ruin the mood for the others. He had done his damnedest to maintain some good cheer and even tried his hand at helping with the party. He had very carefully constructed a lie about visiting some old friends in the States so that nobody would worry and he wouldn't have to politely turn down any pity-invites. He had _tried._

And then Hanzo had kissed him for some game, somehow managed to fashion the holiday into a blade with which to stab him in the gut and that, as it turned out, was the final straw.

It probably wasn’t to be cruel. Hanzo is short-tempered and cold and sometimes downright oblivious, but rarely outright malicious. He had no way of knowing how McCree feels about him.

Well. That’s not entirely accurate.

To be fair, he didn’t know how McCree feels _now._  The only other time they had discussed anything of the sort had been six months ago, in the dead of summer: a few months into their friendship, after McCree had sat on his burgeoning crush for a month before deciding to give it a try.  Hat in hand, he had admitted his feelings and asked for the privilege of taking Hanzo to dinner. Hanzo had, in no uncertain terms, turned him down.

And McCree had had to respect that--even if, over the months that followed, his little crush had become something much more significant and much harder to ignore. That was his problem, not Hanzo’s, and he kept that to himself.

Still, though. Having a kiss planted on him like that didn’t sit right. It felt downright unfair no matter how he spun it.

McCree’s phone buzzes. He shuts it off. The status board overhead updates, announces that his train’s boarding, and he hauls himself to his feet. Once onboard, he orders another whiskey when the steward comes by, and settles himself in for a few hours.

 

\--

 

Madrid is a terrible place to try to escape from the holidays.

The capital city truly goes all out every year. Even from the outskirts of town where the train pulls in, McCree can see the streets adorned with multicolored lights, draped across everything from the outsides of the buildings to the leafless trees. The station is heavily decorated, filled with artificial wire-frame trees, holographic projections of all sorts of holiday imagery, and crowds of travelers bundled up in their winter gear bustling to and fro. McCree couldn’t get drunk on the train, but he certainly wishes he could have.

There are virtually no open hotel rooms at this time of year, but he manages to book himself a room in a lesser-known chain on the train ride over. The streets are just clear enough at this time of night to bother with a cab ride, and McCree sullenly looks out the window and tries to not acknowledge the sights. The receptionist at the hotel seems disinterested in anything but her tablet, checking him in perfunctorily and sending him on his way.

He finally dares to turn on his phone once he’s in bed, curled under the cool sheets. There are four new messages, most of them received within the hour of his departure. The first is from Winston, a quiet acknowledgement of his farewell note and a bland hope that McCree is doing well. McCree deletes it after he reads it.

The other three are from Hanzo.

 

From: Hanzo   19:56

_Where did you go?_

 

From: Hanzo 19:59

_Winston says you left the base. What has happened? Are you alright?_

 

From: Hanzo 20:07

_If it was because of the party, I apologize._

 

McCree snorts derisively and shuts his phone off again.

It doesn’t escape his notice that Hanzo was the only one to check in on his absence--the others, perhaps, were too busy with their own families to take note. It’s nothing new, but it still starts a deep ache in his gut.

Disgusted with his self-pity and too tired to deal with the events of the night, McCree rolls over and stares at the wall until sleep finally claims him.

 

\--

 

When morning comes, McCree is in no better a mood, but at least some of the bitterness and anger have worn away to resignation. That, at least, is easier to handle.

He clears all the messages off his phone before even getting out of bed--out of sight, out of mind, he thinks to himself, although he knows that the texts are not the crux of the issue. It takes a little longer to haul himself out of the bed, then through the shower. He dresses in a pair of dark jeans and a soft flannel that, upon donning, he realizes he wore earlier in the week but is too apathetic to change. He hangs the _do not disturb_ sign on his door to deter anyone who might rifle through his belongings, and wraps himself in his serape and goes.

Madrid in the winter is downright balmy compared to some of the places he's been, but far enough north that it's still a couple degrees cooler than Gibraltar. He shivers as makes his way down the sidewalk, wondering vaguely if he should purchase a proper jacket. He has no plans, now that he is in Madrid. His only thoughts last night had been to get away; today’s goal is just to stay gone.

Breakfast, at an hour much closer to lunchtime, is taken at the first restaurant he sees that isn't absolutely bedecked in lights and ornaments. He chews his way through a savory bean stew and freshly-baked bread without tasting much of it, smiling blandly at the waitress with each interaction. He at least has the thought to tip her well for enduring his poor mood.

After, he walks for a time, and the sights of the city are only slightly easier to endure in the daytime with the sun blotting out the brightest of the decorations. He doesn't pay much attention either way, striding down the sidewalk at a pace barely short of a jog, until he realizes that a plain walk simply won't be enough. He goes back to the hotel and makes use of their pithy gym for an hour or so, lifting weights and doing push-ups until his body aches and his muscles quiver from exertion. Nobody tries to check in on him--the citizens of Madrid have no reason to care, and his phone remains steadfastly silent.

He showers back in his room, then stands by the window and smokes two cigarillos one after the other as he leans out over the sill. Nothing is quite enough to wash away the memory of Hanzo's mouth on his or the sickening feeling of confusing betrayal. But he didn't expect it to be.

At the stroke of five, McCree plants himself on a barstool, rolls up his sleeves, and orders his first whiskey. It comes from the well selection and has more burn than actual taste, but it goes down fine enough. The bar is small, seedy, and out of the way--the kind of place where he doubts the bartender actually gives enough of a shit to cut him off when the time comes.

He takes his time with his second, and his third. A couple of other patrons come and go, but it's not the kind of place anyone wants to take their friends and family for the holidays, so it's quiet enough. Music plays from the PA overhead, tinny and faint but not even resembling Christmas fare. He's grateful for that alone.

It's only once the alcohol's kicked in that McCree even allows himself to acknowledge the thoughts he's successfully ignored through the day, and as soon as he does they come rushing to the forefront. All at once, he is overcome by frustration and guilt and staggering loneliness, a combination that seems to core out his insides and replace them all with a leaden weight. He slumps over the bar, dragging a hand down his face, and wonders just how he got to this point in life.

He's just taking a sip of his fourth, and noting that it doesn't taste like much at this point, when someone slides into the barstool beside him.

"Ain't lookin' for a conversation tonight," McCree mutters into his glass.

"I doubt you could carry one in your state if you had to," says a familiar voice. McCree looks up to find Hanzo seated beside him, tugging the cuffs of his jacket down primly over his wrists. He raises an eyebrow at McCree, glancing between him and the glass in his hand.

McCree purses his lips. He should probably be more surprised. He is, to an extent, that it's Hanzo they sent after him. And damn it, even in this scenario, Hanzo's unfairly pretty--wrapped in his sleek coat yet with his hair slightly tousled by the day's travel, lit dramatically by the lights behind the bar, the sight of him still manages to set off something warm in McCree's chest.

He takes another swallow of his drink to drown that warm feeling. It almost works, but not quite. "Told Winston I'd be back in a couple. Didn't need to send you after me."

"He did not send me," Hanzo says simply. He waves off the bartender when she approaches. "I came to find you on my own."

"Well congrats. You found me even though I didn't want to be found. Hope I'm everything you were lookin' for." McCree gestures grandly at himself before slouching forward again on the bar.

He can feel Hanzo's eyes on him. He deliberately stares at the rows of bottles on the opposite wall. "It even worth askin' how you found me?" he eventually concedes.

"Like you, I once made my living finding other people," Hanzo says mildly. "And it was not difficult. The car was tracked to the train station, and there were only a few trains that left around the time that you did. And I know the kind of bars you like."

"Good on you." McCree downs the rest of his drink, then asks, "Why?"

Hanzo sighs softly. McCree is surprised to hear that it seems regretful, not annoyed. "I was concerned," he says. “Everyone was.”

McCree snorts. “I’m sure they were.”

He pushes his glass across the bar to signal for another, but Hanzo puts his hand down over the top. McCree glares up at him, but as always, Hanzo is unfazed.  
“We should go,” Hanzo says softly: a suggestion and an order at once.

McCree opens his mouth to argue, but even as he does, he feels all the fight drain out of him at once. With a sigh, he nods and pushes himself to his feet.

Hanzo calls a cab while McCree fumbles with his wallet and pays his tab. He didn’t think he was that drunk, but apparently his fine motor skills beg to differ. He stumbles as they step out of the bar and Hanzo catches him with an arm around his back and a hand on his chest. He doesn’t need to be supported to walk, but he still ends up leaning his weight into Hanzo anyway as they go out and wait for the cab.

By the time the cab comes, McCree’s exhausted, and he uses it as an excuse to drop his head on Hanzo’s shoulder in the car. Hanzo sighs and calls him an idiot, but makes no effort to push him away.

The process of getting back to the hotel is hazy at best, but McCree manages to remember his room number and swipe his card. He sheds his hat, boots, and serape in a pile by the door while Hanzo looks on with an expression best described as distasteful concern.

“Quit it,” McCree grumbles, dropping himself into bed.

“Quit what?”

“Feelin’ sorry for me.”

He doesn’t get a response, but he hears Hanzo putter about the room for a minute, then the sounds of plastic rustling and water running in the bathroom. He’s just on the cusp of sleep when he senses Hanzo approach the bed, and something taps down on the bedside table.

“Would you like me to go?” Hanzo asks softly.

McCree buries his face into his pillow. His head’s beginning to spin too much to think. “Do whatever you want,” he groans into his pillow.

He is met with silence for a long moment. “As you wish,” Hanzo says. McCree screws his eyes shut and wills himself to fall asleep before the dizziness becomes unbearable. A hand gently tugs the edge of the blanket up and over his shoulder, and he thinks he feels the brush of fingertips through his hair as he drifts off.

 

\--

 

McCree wakes early in the morning, well before the sun has begun to rise. The alcohol’s just about out of his system now, but he still feels heavy and drowsy. It’s far too early, so he rolls over with the intent to fall back asleep and sees a shadowy form on his floor.

He starts and shoves himself up onto an elbow, other hand reaching under his pillow for Peacekeeper. Then he recognizes the form as Hanzo, asleep, wrapped up in the blanket that had started the night at the foot of McCree’s bed.

McCree slowly relaxes, releasing his grip on his gun. Hanzo doesn’t react to McCree’s sudden waking, his breathing still deep and even.

McCree means to lie down and go back to sleep now that he knows there is no threat, but finds himself lingering anyway. The floor can't be that comfortable--and McCree's slept on his fair share of terrible carpets--but Hanzo seems cozy enough, the blanket pulled up tight over his shoulders and over the bottom half of his face. His hair is a mess, a spray of black on the white pillow that McCree realizes was also stolen from his bed.

It hadn't occurred to him, a few hours ago, that Hanzo might not have had anywhere else to go. That he might have simply packed a bag and come looking for McCree, with no regard for lodgings or anything else.

He's not sure what to make of that, but if he tries to think on it now, it'll overwhelm him immediately. He rolls over and falls back asleep before any of that mess can take root.

 

\--

 

When he wakes next, some time late into the morning, Hanzo is gone. The blanket is folded and draped over the foot of McCree's bed, the pillow returned to its spot on the other side. McCree starts to feel disappointed before he hears the shower running in the en suite bathroom. Relief is quickly drowned out by the low rumblings of a headache and nausea, and he drops his head back onto the pillow.

Hanzo pads out of the bathroom some ten minutes later, dressed but barefoot, his damp hair combed and draped over his shoulder. He glances at McCree and murmurs, "Good morning" as he passes.

"Morning," McCree mumbles, now all but buried under his blanket. Hanzo crosses the room to root through his backpack, coming up with a pair of socks and his phone. "Helpin' yourself to my room, then?"

"It was late when we arrived and I did not feel like dealing with the rooms during the holidays at that hour. There were also two towels," Hanzo says mildly, scrolling through his phone. "And I was concerned that if I left you alone, you would die."

McCree starts to protest but his stomach suddenly lurches up into his throat, and he clenches his teeth against the threat of vomiting. When it wanes to a tolerable level, he sees Hanzo watching him with concern. He nods toward the bedside table, where McCree finds a plastic cup full of water and a convenience-store packet of pain relievers.

"Take those and drink," Hanzo instructs. "Then get ready. Breakfast would do you some good."

McCree wants to argue just to be contrary, but he swallows the pills, then pulls himself out of bed and slogs into the bathroom anyway.

The shower does serve to make him feel more like a human being again, and the painkillers have kicked in a bit by the time he gets dressed. He drags a comb through his hair and ruffles it out again with his fingers, forgoes any effort on his beard, and steels himself to face Hanzo properly.

But Hanzo barely spares him a glance, perched on the edge of the bed with his focus on his phone. He’s fully ready now, with his hair slicked back into its customary knot and his boots and jacket on, stern and untouchable as usual. He taps away at his phone in silence while McCree pulls on his boots and throws his serape over his shoulders.

He lets Hanzo lead the way out of the hotel and out into the city. The mid-morning sun shines brightly overhead, lending its warmth to counteract the wintry chill in the air. Madrid's citizens and tourists alike continue to take advantage of the fine weather, milling about the streets and popping in and out of storefronts. McCree's too tired, both from his hangover and the last couple of days, to be annoyed at them anymore.

Hanzo silently steers them into a nearby bakery, and soon they are each seated with strong cups of coffee and a fresh _magdalena_ in front of them. The warm lemony scent of the pastry triggers McCree’s hunger, and he devours his in a couple of minutes.

Hanzo picks at his breakfast and sips his coffee, cup held properly between both hands. He waits for McCree to finish eating, then asks, “Why did you leave?”

McCree was expecting the question, but that doesn't make him any happier to hear it. He bites back the sarcastic retort he wants to give and instead says, "Don't do well with the holidays."

"You do not like them?"

"Not really."

"May I ask why? I thought most Americans celebrated."

"Used to." McCree lifts his cup to his lips, suppressing a scowl into a frown. "But then a few people died on me, and I spent a few more years remembering it, and it stopped bein' such a fun time."

"I see." Perfectly neutral. Hanzo pops another piece of his _magdalena_ into his mouth. It's the silence, and a bit of guilt for his tone, that compels McCree to keep talking.

"It's been up and down since I left home as a kid," he says, pushing a crumb around on his plate. "Deadlocks used Christmas to rob shit. Overwatch was a little better--Ana and Gabe tried to get me involved, made it a little better for the first couple of years until I was more grounded. Then they bit it, or pretended to, Overwatch fell apart, and I spent every year except this one alone. Think it's pretty reasonable to be done with the whole concept at this rate."

He doesn't mention the kiss yet. Neither does Hanzo, who simply nods and takes another sip of his coffee. He's clearly uncomfortable, but whether it's because he's terrible at sentiment or because of McCree himself is impossible to say.

"Understandable," Hanzo eventually says. "I take it that it became too much the other night, then, so you left?"

"Pretty much. Didn't feel like ruinin' everyone's fun by by being all self-pitying."

Hanzo gives another nod. McCree looks back out the window, having lost interest in the pastry crumb. The silence stretches between them, tense.

"Do you want to stay here until Christmas is done?" Hanzo asks eventually.

"Depends. You gonna babysit me the whole time?"

"If I must." When McCree pins him with a disbelieving look, Hanzo shrugs and says, "I promised that I would make sure you were okay. Given the state I found you in, I do not think it would be wise to leave you alone."

McCree can’t help a snort at that, and that somehow is what finally gets Hanzo to react as he frowns deeply. “They care about you,” Hanzo says, almost indignant. “I may have been the one to come here, but they all worried once they realized you were gone.”

“Right.”

“I worried as well.”

McCree does feel another faint pang of regret at that, and he can’t quite bring himself to meet Hanzo’s eye.

Finally, he blows out a breath and relents. “I’m not goin’ back for a day or two,” he says.

“I will not try to force you.”

“You really wanna stay here the whole time? What about, I’unno, Genji?”

“What about him? If you are referring to spending time with him for the holidays, neither of us has ever paid much attention to it, and I’m sure Zenyatta is better company, anyway.”

Hanzo drinks the rest of his coffee. McCree stares at him for a long moment, sighs again, and pushes himself to his feet.

“Alright then.”

 

\--

McCree hadn’t planned much for today, either, so the remainder of the morning and part of the early afternoon is spent walking again. He follows a different route from yesterday’s, Hanzo trailing shortly behind him.

It's tense, at first. They don't speak much, wandering together along whatever routes make themselves apparent. McCree shoves his hands in his pants pockets and resists the urge to smoke in the middle of the crowds. Hanzo makes a few attempts at conversation and looks at his phone.

As always, though, McCree can't quite maintain his shitty mood when he's with Hanzo. Despite what he might have come here fore, Hanzo is clearly intrigued by the capital city and what it has to offer; he looks around with polite but wide-eyed interest, and McCree's pathetic enough that in spite of everything, he finds it _endearing_.

When Hanzo slows down for the second time in front of a store window, McCree heaves a sigh and stops at the door. "You wanna go in?" he asks.

Hanzo blinks at him. He opens his mouth like he's going to speak, shuts it again, and ducks past McCree to go into the shop. He holds the door open until McCree comes in, too, with an expression that seems to be daring him to refuse.

McCree stands around while Hanzo buys a scarf in a dark forest green (Genji, he explains, likes them for the way they dramatically fly behind him more than the warmth). After that, Hanzo wants to poke his head into a couple more of the local shops, and McCree follows along for lack of anywhere better to be. He begrudgingly lets Hanzo rope him into a couple of short conversations, and even laughs once or twice. It's almost comfortable, reminiscent of their interactions, though the memory of the other night still looms over them both like a specter, haunting them while they both try not to acknowledge it for a couple of hours.

They make their way back to the hotel eventually in the mid-afternoon, and McCree’s sour mood returns the moment he steps over the threshold to his room. He considers taking off his boots and serape, then reconsiders it, instead making his way through the sliding glass door on the other side of the room and onto the tiny balcony for a smoke. He hears Hanzo putter around the room for a minute before ultimately joining him outside. He leans next to McCree on the railing, careful, like he expects McCree to spook if he goes too quickly. His fingers drum a restless beat on the rail.

McCree takes another deep drag from his cigarillo, lets the smoke rest on his tongue, and exhales it on a sigh. "So are we just not gonna talk about the other night?" he asks.

The effect is immediate: Hanzo’s fidgeting stops as every muscle in his body appears to tense at once.

"No," he says, then quickly amends, "I had planned to discuss it. It was part of why I came to find you."

McCree grunts. Hanzo picks at the hem of his sleeve a few times before he speaks.

"It was poor judgment, and I apologize," he says. "I had had a few drinks, and I thought you would not mind, given the tradition. I thought you might have even realized and been standing there on purpose."

"Nope."

Hanzo winces slightly. "I realize. I am sorry." McCree looks over at him, but Hanzo is focused on pulling at a loose thread.

McCree looks back out from the balcony, gazing out on the cityscape stretching out ahead of them and blocking the horizon. The sun still shines on the bustling city, warm and cheerful. Passersby wander on the sidewalks below, unaware of the pair above them, content with their own companions or distracted by thoughts. It seems wrong, somehow, to be having this discussion on such a pleasant afternoon instead of talking about just how pleasant it is.

"What I do not understand, however,” Hanzo says, taking a deep breath, “is why exactly that upset you as it did."

McCree laughs harshly. "You can’t take a guess?"

"I . . . have a suspicion, but I did not want to assume."

So he did still remember. Fantastic. "Yeah, well," he says, "the problem didn’t exactly get any _better_ after you turned me down back then, if you catch my drift."

And there it is. Hanzo is silent, watching McCree intently. McCree has to look away. "So you plantin’ one on me like that for some shitty game wasn’t exactly fair," he says, just in case the point is somehow unclear.

"I did not know."

"I know. But that’s where I’m at. Combined with all this--" he waves vaguely at the city beyond the balcony, with all of its holiday splendor, "--it just ended up being too much. So I came here to lick my wounds in peace." He ashes his cigarillo over the railing, letting the flakes drift away on the cool breeze. "So. There you are."

Hanzo nods sharply, and McCree figures they’re nearing the end. He braces himself for the inevitable rejection, the reinforcement of their boundaries, and being left on his own to scrape himself back together before the new year.

Instead, Hanzo says, "Genji and I didn’t celebrate Christmas the way you do."

McCree frowns at the non sequitur. Hanzo looks down and away, rubbing a thumb his thumb over the bracelet on his other wrist. The side of the bead is shinier than the rest, worn away by dozens of similar touches. "We did not celebrate it much at all," he continues. "Christmas is celebrated in Japan, but it is much less grand. Christmas Eve is much more important, more of a romantic holiday--"

"Yeah, I know that," McCree says. He's desperate to find any thread of logic in the conversation at this point. "Genji’s mentioned it once or twice, but I'm not real sure how that has--"

"I made plans," Hanzo interrupts stiffly. "For today. The other night, I meant to ask if you--if you would join me."

McCree feels his jaw drop.

Hanzo, his gaze still on his bracelet, does not seem to notice. A wry smile comes across his face. "Clearly, I did not succeed," he says. "I was nervous, and I grew impatient with myself for being so nervous. It was Genji who pointed out where you were standing, and it seemed like a convenient excuse to get the entire matter over with. I didn’t realize how it would appear to you. Though I also lay some of the blame in the fact that Reinhardt mixed the eggnog."

McCree feels the cigarillo slip a little in his fingers, and finally stubs it out for his own safety. He knows he’s staring, but he can’t quite seem to make himself do anything more intelligent. "So, you’re saying . . . you didn’t just kiss me for a game."

"No. I did it because I have thought of doing so for months."

McCree can’t decide if the feeling swelling in his chest is giddy relief, or joy, or exasperation, or some bizarre combination of them all. He finds himself laughing anyway, just a little. Hanzo chuckles, too, though he sounds much more uncertain.

"What a goddamn pair we make," McCree says, rubbing his hand down his face. "Can’t even do something as simple as a damn date, can we?"’

"There are probably easier ways to do it," Hanzo agrees. He sobers again at that, then looks to McCree with a sudden seriousness that leaves him feeling off-balance. "But--it does not change the truth of the matter. I do care for you, and I would like the chance to prove it, if you will allow me."

McCree can feel himself smiling now. He tries to school it into something not too ridiculous, but he’s pretty sure he fails if Hanzo’s own smile is anything to go by. He huffs and rolls his half-finished cigarillo between his hands just for something to do.

"So," he says after a moment, when he thinks he's managed to regain some dignity. "What now? Got something in mind?”

Hanzo chews on the inside of his cheek before leveling McCree with a surprisingly determined expression. "May I have an hour?"

 

\--

 

Hanzo spends three-quarters of the hour back intently poring over his tablet. He refuses to answer questions about what he is doing and deliberately locks the screen when McCree tries to peer over his shoulder. Defeated by Hanzo's razor-fine reflexes, McCree decides to doze away the last of his hangover, although it's hard to catch any real sleep knowing that Hanzo is in the room and intently plotting _something._ He manages to catch a few winks, and in between he watches Hanzo, skin prickling with anticipation.

Finally, Hanzo packs away his tablet and announces that they will be leaving in another hour during which is when McCree manages to get the most sleep. He wakes again when he hears the bathroom door click, and opens his eyes when Hanzo stops beside the bed.

There was only so much he could do with what McCree presumes to be limited resources, but Hanzo's's cleaned up. He's let his hair down, drawn over his shoulder and tucked neatly behind his ear. McCree doesn't know if Hanzo was wearing the olive-green sweater before, but without the jacket he can now appreciate the way that sweater hugs Hanzo's strong figure while looking soft enough that McCree's fingers twitch with the urge to touch.

"Are you ready?" Hanzo asks. He tugs the sleeves of his sweater up over the thickest parts of his forearms, revealing several inches of his tattoo and making McCree abruptly aware that he chose to spend his time doing something that's helplessly mussed the hair on the back of his head.

"No," he says and rolls to his feet. Hanzo laughs as McCree stands in front of the bathroom mirror desperately finger-combing his hair back into place.

Dinner is at a traditional Spanish restaurant a few blocks down the way. The building looks full to bursting, but they are hurried in by the maitre'd without so much as an eyelash batted in their direction. "Surprised a place like this is open today," McCree remarks as they pore over the local wine selections at their corner table.

"It took some searching," Hanzo admits. "But it was hardly a challenge." He won't quite meet McCree's eye, though, making him wonder just how much of their prep time that afternoon was spent just securing their table here. He hides his smile behind the menu.

After dinner is a little bar further on down the street, and that is a little easier. It's cozier with the two of them tucked into the end of the bar, and with the courage of some whiskey on top of the wine from dinner, McCree finds it easier to properly relax, and conversation flows more naturally here than at the restaurant. Hanzo tells him about what happened at the end of the party the other night when both Lena and Lucio overdid it on the liquor and tried to race, and that in turn leads to the two of them laughing about some of their own poor decisions as young adults.

The dinner and drinks are all good, but the entire outing feels a bit strange.  On any other date, McCree be flirting and conversing and charming his way through the whole thing without an issue, but this is something else entirely. This is going on a sickeningly romantic Christmas date with his close friend, like their entire worldview and their perceptions of one another didn't completely flip three hours ago. This is not knowing whether to be overjoyed or angry or paranoid, while his breath catches whenever Hanzo's eye meets his over his wine glass or their knees brush as they sit at the bar. This is fighting the urge to just grab Hanzo and kiss him senseless because there's a part of him still concerned that it'll get him killed, despite what happened the other night.

At least he's not the only one drinking a little deeper than perhaps he should--Hanzo tries to be subtle, but his drinks disappear just as quickly as McCree's.

Their last stop, after mutually realizing that they maybe drank a little too much, is a meandering walk through a seasonal market. Many of the vendors have closed up for the day, but others are taking full advantage of the evening tourists and the city's brilliant light displays. Hanzo insists upon stopping and splitting a couple of _churros_ from a cart vendor, and he laughs and tugs McCree along by his shirt sleeve when he protests. His hand curls around McCree's biceps while they pay, slowly, until McCree properly offers his arm. He doesn't really taste the  _churros_ , distracted as he is once Hanzo's arm links through his.

Their walk takes them down the street in front of the grand _Palacio de Cibeles_ , and that is where they finally slow, not by mutual choice but more by Hanzo's--he seems to forget that he is walking when he catches sight of the palace. The long, grand building is lined in lights along every straight edge and rounded arch, while larger flood lights bath the palace's flat planes in warm, welcoming golds and pale reds. The entire effect is not unlike a fairy tale illustration, and McCree has to agree, it's quite a sight. They aren't the only ones to think so, either, judging by the scattered tourists snapping photos or otherwise enraptured.

Hanzo's grip on his arm tightens. McCree, heart stuttering, tugs him closer, and they look on at the palace together for a long, peaceful moment.

"Thank you, Hanzo," McCree eventually says. "This was nice." He laughs a little, and Hanzo looks up at him, eyes wide and shining in the lights overhead. "Well. More than nice. Pretty sure this is the nicest anyone's treated me in a while."

"It is the very least I could offer you," Hanzo replies. He slowly leans his weight into McCree's side, as though he is unsure he is allowed. "Hardly a fraction of what you deserve."

"That's . . ." McCree trails off and laughs again, unable to find the words. The warmth of Hanzo pressed against him has a lot to do with it, but again, he feels that thread of tension tighten in his chest.

Hanzo must notice, because his smile becomes faint. “Is something bothering you?” he asks. “You have seemed tense this whole evening.”

“No, no,” McCree says quickly, self-conscious. “Not really. It’s just been a long, weird day. I guess I’m still sort of waiting for the other shoe to drop. You know?”

"I suppose so," Hanzo says slowly. "This was a rather unorthodox way of going about things."

"On top of the, you know, general emotional bullshit that we're just so good at handling." They both chuckle at that, and the knot on McCree's chest loosens a little further.

They are quiet for another moment. McCree looks back at the palace. He's not usually one for these grand displays of wealth and opulence, but he's willing to admit that it's quite a sight. Maybe it's just better with the right company.

Hanzo clears his throat beside him, and when McCree looks at him, Hanzo drops his gaze. "Jesse," he starts, taking a deep breath. "I realize I made a mistake at the beginning of this. That I allowed my cowardice to make me thoughtless. But I want you to know that I--"

He stops abruptly, grimacing as though pained, and it occurs to McCree that Hanzo has done nearly everything in the past day. They are both absolute trainwrecks when it comes to emotions, but whereas McCree chose to flee and drink himself to numbness, Hanzo has tried. He's made up for his missteps and then some, and all McCree's done is follow along.

McCree dips down and catches Hanzo in a kiss, interrupting one confession with his own. Hanzo lets him, pursing his lips to accept it, and McCree keeps it to a light press--anything more seems like too much for the moment.

When they break, Hanzo looks about as utterly starstruck as McCree feels, and it takes McCree a second to remember to breath. "Don't worry about it," he manages to say.

Hanzo smiles and takes McCree's face between both hands, pulling him down into another kiss, and the last threads of McCree's hesitance dissolve. He loops his arms around Hanzo's waist and tilts his head to deepen the kiss, losing himself to the gentle push and pull of their lips, the warmth of their mouths contrasting the cool night, and the sheer joy filling his chest.

 

\--

 

Getting back to the hotel, when they finally separate themselves long enough to think of it, is a slow process. They take their time meandering, arm-in-arm, stretching out the walk for all it's worth.

Once there, they separate with great reluctance to dress down. Hanzo retrieves a square white box from his bag, nestled delicately in his clothing. It contains, to McCree's surprise, a small sponge cake, frosted with perfect precision in white and rimmed with sliced strawberries.

"It is a Christmas tradition in Japan," Hanzo says. A touch of pink colors the top of his cheeks. "Sharing a cake between friends or family. I had intended it for today, before everything else that happened. I brought it here as a peace offering, but I suppose it will serve its original purpose again."

"Looks good." Heart swelling with affection, McCree can't resist dropping a kiss on the corner of Hanzo's mouth before turning to hang up his serape; judging by the sharp inhale he hears, it's not unwelcome.

McCree turns on the TV and flicks through the channels until he finds something that looks mindless while Hanzo slices the cake with what McCree suspects is a combat knife. It's only after he's done so that they realize they have nothing in the way of plates or silverware, so instead they end up eating with their hands, laughing about the cream drying sticky on their fingers and crumbs falling into the blankets despite their best efforts. They easily demolish half of the cake between them, taking bites between cutting comments about the show they’re watching. After, they quickly settle into a companionable silence as they sit beside on another. After the busy and rather strange course of the day, it's nice to simply sit back and do nothing at all, and McCree revels in the simple joy of having Hanzo beside him and the warm press of Hanzo’s knee into his thigh.

But, as they close in on an hour and the show comes to an end, Hanzo uncomfortably clears his throat and says, "It is late. I should probably go."

McCree's heart stutters, but he manages to keep his voice even as he says, "You don't gotta. You can stay here, if you want."

Hanzo pauses halfway to his feet, one leg still awkwardly bent on the bed. "I do not want to intrude," he says slowly, and the uncertainty in his voice makes McCree's anxiety disappear as quickly as it came.

He catches hold of Hanzo's sleeve, tugging gently. "You're crazy if you think I'm lettin' you go now that I've got you here," he says, and that gets him a sudden lapful of Hanzo and a sound, heartfelt kiss.

When he tries to pull away to murmur “Alright, I get it,” he barely gets through the sentence before he’s interrupted again. He stops trying after that, and for a good few minutes after.

"I wanted to say yes, before," Hanzo says when they break apart again, at which point his arms are around McCree’s neck and McCree’s inched his fingertips under the back of Hanzo’s shirt.

Slightly dizzy, it takes a moment for McCree to process what he said. "Say yes to what?"

"Last summer. When you asked me to dinner." Hanzo's eyes drop to somewhere around McCree's collarbone. "I wanted to say yes."

"That so." Hanzo nods. "Why didn't you?"

Hanzo worries the inside of his lip. "At the time, I was already certain I had some feelings for you," he says, "but I was . . . afraid. I was certain you would tire of me immediately, and that whatever feelings either of us had would simply go away with time, so I chose not to pursue them. But, as you said, it did not get any better. I came to regret saying no, but I did not know what to say or even if you still . . ."

McCree smiles helplessly, reaching up to tuck a lock of Hanzo's hair behind his ear. "You know, even back then, I knew I was probably in trouble," he says. "And now, well, you don't have to worry 'cause I'm pretty much hopelessly in love with you."

Hanzo drops his head, but not soon enough to hide the grin as it spreads across his face. His response comes in the form of his hand in McCree's hair and another kiss, which McCree is all too happy to take.

McCree soon finds himself being pressed back into the pillows and he goes willingly, drawing Hanzo down with him. With nowhere to go and finally nothing left to interrupt them, it’s easy to get lost in the sheer simplicity of it. They kiss lazily, sweet and easy, hands roaming through hair and over clothed bodies. When McCree dares to press a kiss into Hanzo’s throat and he responds with a soft moan and seizing the back of McCree’s shirt, it’s just as easy to follow that to its natural conclusion. They don’t quite manage to get undressed, instead just rucking up shirts and pushing down jeans far enough for hands and mouths to reach. What follows is slow and tender in a way McCree hasn't known in years, so simple and loving that it makes his throat go tight to think about it.

After, as Hanzo slips into a doze with his head pillowed on McCree's shoulder, McCree stares up at the ceiling in simple awe.

Hanzo shifts, draping his arm more snugly over McCree's chest and nuzzling into his neck. McCree can feel his lips part a few seconds before he actually speaks.

"I am in love with you as well," he murmurs, rough with sleep.

McCree presses his cheek against Hanzo's hair, breathes in the faint scent of his shampoo, and grins.

 

\--

 

“You realize that trying to travel back the day after Christmas is going to be even be worse than getting here.”

“Hey now, I suggested stayin’ for another week. We’d be free and clear if we did, but _someone_ nixed that idea.”

Hanzo smacks McCree’s chest with the back of his hand. McCree laughs and catches Hanzo’s hand with his own before it can retreat. “Alright, alright,” he says. “Guess we can’t leave the Watchpoint without us for _too_ long.”

“It is tempting,” Hanzo admits, looking out at the train platform, filled to the brim with bustling travellers. Their own train is minutes from boarding, and they will undoubtedly be packed into it with three hundred other passengers like particularly uncomfortable sardines. “But--”

“Jobs to do, I know,” McCree murmurs. He presses a kiss to Hanzo’s knuckles before regretfully letting him go. Christmas for them was spent primarily at the hotel, and half of that in bed alone--not only for the expected activities, excellent as those were, but often just to lie around in each other’s presence. They left only for take-out and coffee, which were consumed while half-watching TV together and forgetting that anything else existed beyond their room. It turned McCree’s self-pity vacation into a quiet, intimate bubble just for them; once they board the train, it’ll pop and dissolve into nothingness. McCree finds he's not as ready for that as he thought.

Their train calls to board, and he and Hanzo are shuffled amongst the crowds into the packed carriages. Once they're wedged into their seats, McCree sighs wistfully. At Hanzo's curious look, he says, "Just gonna miss this, is all. Gonna be weird when we get back."

"It has been nice," Hanzo admits. McCree takes his hand on the arm rest between them, and Hanzo smiles shyly.

“You wanna tell them?” McCree asks after a moment, brushing a thumb over the backs of Hanzo’s fingers.

"I do not know if there would be a point. Half of the Watchpoint seemed to expect this, based on their comments when I left to find you.”

McCree snorts. “Bastards,” he says, without malice. “Well, I’m not against them knowin’, but I also don’t feel like making a big production of it. Guess we can see how it goes?”

“That sounds best.”

They are quiet for a moment. The train creaks and rumbles as it prepares to leave. McCree says, “You realize that by askin’ me out on Christmas Eve, you’ve basically put our anniversary right on top of the holidays and made it fucking impossible, right?”

He realizes a second too late that he’s assumed far too much with an _anniversary_ for something that’s barely two days old. But as Hanzo throws his head back against the seat and laughs, his hand squeezing tight around McCree’s, he figures Hanzo doesn’t mind too much.


End file.
